Pas de deux
by Eilonwy Grace
Summary: What if Gale and Katniss somehow escaped the pages of their written world and found themselves in the US in 2014? What would they make of our society and the popularity of The Hunger Games books and movies? Would their relationship be able to endure the inevitable spoilers?


_I'm still working on Spectator's Sport, but this idea (suggested by this super cute piece of fan art - the third one at 2011/10/07/fan-art-friday-16/) popped into my head last week and refused to give me any peace until it was finished. This story also owes a bit of a debt to melody t. gatsby's story Extant, which is where I was first captivated by the idea of Gale finding Katniss 'incurably egocentric.' Hope you enjoy!  
_

* * *

It is a normal Sunday afternoon – but, no, that's not exactly right. A normal Sunday afternoon would mean the whole day off, spending it in the woods with Gale, the two of us hunting and foraging and resting and laughing. The day I most look forward to each week, a day when we both have no other responsibilities, when we can take our time and come back slow.

Normal Sundays are good. One of the few good things we have in District 12, maybe the best. But this Sunday? More than good. Incredible. Not that anything is different, no, we're still hunting and laying traps and talking and joking with one another. Maybe it's because it's spring, and the weather is so deliciously beautiful that it seems impossible, for right now at least, to imagine anything that _isn't _deliciously beautiful. Maybe it's the fruit of a long partnership between Gale and I, how easily we move through the woods together, how right he feels by my side. Maybe it's because, for once, neither of us says anything about the Capitol – that we have silently agreed not to mar the day with indignation, no matter how just.

I don't know what it is. All I know is, today is _good_.

We finish laying our traps by mid-morning. The next few hours we spend lounging luxuriously in our spot, the warm spring sun on our skin, the playful breeze in our hair. We talk a little, sleep a little, and when I wake up Gale has already pulled together a small lunch for us to share. He teases me about the way I have grass stuck in my braid, laughing as he passes over his tin canteen. I love seeing him smile, which he does all too rarely, at least when we're back in the district. Out here, outside the fence, of course, it's different.

"Let's go swimming," I suggest after we finish eating.

He groans and lies back in the grass. "I'll get a cramp."

"It's a hike to the lake – you'll have time to work off the meal." I'm up on my feet, tugging at his hand, coaxing him to join me. "Unless you're just embarrassed because I won our last swimming race."

This has him standing at once. "Only because I felt sorry for you and wanted you to win for once."

"For once? I always win."

"So, I feel sorry for you a lot. You're a very pitiful person, Catnip."

"Not so much as you're going to be when I beat you to the lake," I say, and the two of us are off, racing over rocks and swerving around trees, wind in our faces and spring in our feet.

I beat him, of course, by a full minute. I'm leaning against a tree, trying to catch my breath, when he finally flies out from the trees, flailing his arms and shouting wildly. This succeeds in its intent to scare me out of my wits, and I howl as I jump three feet in the air.

"What?" he grins, glancing back over his shoulder at me as he sprints to the lake, peeling off his jacket and tearing off his shoes, leaving them where they fall. "A hunter should never be caught unaware."

In response, I hurry out of my own outer garments, extract myself from my bow, and launch myself at him in a flying tackle. We land with a splash in the shallow bank.

"That all you got, Everdeen?" he asks, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"You're asking for it today, aren't you?" This results in a watery wrestling match, which of course results in the taller and more muscular Gale pinning me underneath the water, which of course results in me having to beat him in five consecutive races.

It's already late afternoon by the time we emerge from the lake, tired and dripping but smiles on both of our faces. I collapse on the dry bank, wringing out the bottom of my shirt, welcoming the sun's warmth on my skin.

"Guess we're not going to get much hunting done today," says Gale.

I close my eyes and lean back into the grass. "We'll have enough in the snares for dinner. We can make up for the rest tomorrow after school."

"All right," he agrees, satisfaction in his voice as he sprawls out beside me. I stretch and yawn, feeling empty and happy and clean. Neither of us speak, but I can hear the pattern of his breathing beside me, as familiar as the wind in the trees or the buzz of insects in my ear. We lie there a long time, neither eager to leave the good day behind, to return to the dust and grime and weight of responsibility that is our life in the districts.

But there are the snares to see to, and hungry children at home. At last we pick ourselves up, brush the bits of grass from our damp clothing, and set about to finding our boots.

Gale has just fitted his bow over his shoulder when a scrap of paper blows out of the trees, plastering itself against his leg. I watch in interest as he retrieves it, smoothes it out, and puzzles over the tiny letters. Paper is expensive, so even inside the fence it's not like people would let sheets go flying around. But out here in the woods, where, as far as we know, only Gale and I ever go?

"What is it?" I ask, suddenly frightened by the crease in his eyebrows, the way he glances this way and that, as though prey aware that a hunter is nearby.

"I don't know," he says, handing the page to me. It's really good quality paper, and the dark words are too perfect, too uniform, to be handwritten. I glance at him once more, trying to interpret the nuances of his expression, before turning my attention to the page.

_One of the goats, _I read, _a white one with black patches, was lying down in a cart. It was easy to see why. Something, probably a dog, had mauled her shoulder and infection had set in. It was bad, the Goat Man had to hold her up to milk her. But I thought I knew someone who could fix it. 'Gale,' I whispered. 'I want that goat for Prim.'_

"What is this?" I demand.

"You didn't write it?"

"Me? Of course not. How could I have done that? Do you know how much this paper would cost?"

"Where did it come from, then?"

We glance around us, the lake eerily silent.

"Is there more?" I ask at last.

Gale points to the tree line. "I think it came from over there. You wanna go check it out?"

No, I don't. I want to go home and try to forget this strange occurrence. Why are there random pages floating through the woods, pages that sound as though they've been written by me? The thing with Prim's goat, that really happened. Gale and I were both there. Who else would have known enough about it to write it down, and why would they? And why had they assumed my voice to do it?

I feel a surge of anger at this bizarre invasion of my selfhood. "Let's do it."

We creep into the forest, which suddenly seems so dark and sinister. Times like this, I know that I couldn't ask for a better hunting partner than Gale, that no matter what happens he will have my back. A good thing to know when plunging head first into such a mysterious and possibly dangerous situation.

We walk a few meters without seeing anything. Then:

"Up there," whispers Gale, pointing to a gnarled branch. Spring has not yet reached this tree, and it is naked except for the crumpled paper caught in its dry, tangled fingers.

I step forward to extricate the paper. It takes some effort, and I rip it nearly in half. It's still legible, though. With wide eyes, I read:

_That week I managed the snares and dropped off the meat with Hazelle. But I didn't see Gale until Sunday. I had this whole speech worked out, about how I didn't want a boyfriend and never planned on marrying, but I didn't end up using it. Gale acted as if the kiss had never happened. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something. Or kiss him back. Instead I just pretended it had never happened, either. But it had. Gale had shattered some invisible barrier between us and, with it, any hope I had of resuming our old, uncomplicated friendship. Whatever I pretended, I could never look at his lips in quite the same way again._

I blush madly and shove the paper deep into my pocket.

"What is it?" Gale asks.

"Nothing," I say, too quickly.

He frowns. "Your face doesn't look like it was nothing. Catnip, what's going on here?"

"I don't know."

His frown deepens as he considers me. It doesn't help that, the more he looks at me, the deeper I blush. That thing about the goat, yeah, that was weird, but at least it really happened. But this? Gale has never kissed me – never even thought about it, as far as I know. Who would write about something like that, in my voice, and then scatter the pages throughout our woods where we would be sure to find them? Is this some kind of joke?

I look down at my boots, up at the tops of the trees, anywhere but Gale and his lips. What _would _it be like, I find myself wondering, to be kissed by them? The thought, though unexpected, is not entirely unpleasant, a fact that only makes me blush deeper and scowl harder. Whoever this person is, writing these things, I am going to find them. And most likely kill them.

Gale sighs. "Well, I'm going to continue on. See if I can find anything else."

I want to tell him not to – who knows what other ridiculous things might be written on these pages? But I can't find my voice, and he turns to go. Even though I want to follow him, I find myself instead pulling out the torn page from inside my jacket. There's more to it.

_This all flashes through my head in an instant as President Snow's eyes bore into me on the heels of his threat to kill Gale. How stupid I've been to think the Capitol would just ignore me _

The paper flutters, forgotten, to the forest floor. Threat to kill Gale! My hands fly to my bow, as though President Snow is standing right in front me, the very threat on his lips. Why would President Snow care one way or the other about him? I realize that the paper might answer this question, and scramble to recover it.

The bottom of the page is jagged, as though some of the paper has torn off, but there's more writing on the back:

'_I know. I will. I've convince everyone in the districts that I wasn't defying the Capitol, that I was crazy with love,' I say._

_President Snow rises and dabs his puffy lips with a napkin. 'Aim higher in case you fall short.'_

'_What do you mean? How can I aim higher?' I ask._

'_Convince _me_," he says. He drops the napkin and retrieves his book. I don't watch him as he heads for the door, so I flinch when he whispers in my ear. 'By the way, I know about the kiss.' Then the door clicks shut behind him._

"Katniss!"

Gale's voice rouses me from my befuddled stupor. All my senses now on overdrive, I pull out an arrow and notch it as I leap over a fallen log.

Gale, however, is alone. Alone except for another piece of paper. His lips are tightly drawn as he hands it to me.

'_After the Games, they sent in planes. Dropped firebombs.' He hesitates. 'Well, you know what happened to the Hob.'_

_I do know. I saw it go up. That old warehouse embedded with coal dust. The whole district's covered with the stuff. A new kind of horror begins to rise up inside me as I imagine firebombs hitting the Seam._

'_They're not in District Twelve?' I repeat. As if saying it will somehow fend off the truth._

'_Katniss,' Gale says softly._

_I recognize that voice. It's the same one he uses to approach wounded animals before he delivers a deathblow. I instinctively raise my hand to block his words but he catches it and holds on tightly._

'_Don't,' I whisper._

_But Gale is not one to keep secrets from me. 'Katniss, there is no District Twelve.'_

_END OF BOOK TWO_

"What is this?" I whisper, once I'm able to find my voice.

His voice his hard as he takes the paper back from me. "I don't know. But we're not going home tonight until we figure this out. Come on."

He starts a quick pace, but I hesitate, remembering the passage about the threat to kill him. Whoever wrote these things has to be crazy, and maybe even dangerous. Maybe they think the things they're writing about are our future… although, in that case, Gale's life merely being threatened is not my biggest worry. No District Twelve! My throat constricts as I think of Prim, probably sitting at the kitchen table right now, Buttercup at her feet and her homework lying out in front of her. Where was she, in this hypothetical destruction of our home? Is the author even now writing a page detailing her death? Is this some kind of sick game? I think about President Snow threatening Gale. Or is it a warning?

I shoulder my bow and hurry after Gale.

We find a few more pages, one filled with names of people neither of us know, Messalla and Cressida and Boggs. There's a description of me and Finnick Odair, the sex symbol from District 4, drinking coffee together. Both Gale and I have to grin at that one, and for minute the tension lessens as he teases me about my new boyfriend. But then we find a page describing Gale's back being torn to pieces by an angry whip, and we both sober up real quick.

"It's getting dark," I finally say, stopping to wipe the sweat from my forehead. "Our families are going to be worried."

"Just a little bit further," insists Gale, and I realize that he's still clutching the page about District 12 being destroyed.

It's a couple of meters before I spot the next page, blowing out of a narrow cave by the side of a dried-up river bed. I put my hand on Gale's arm to get him to stop, and very silently, he draws his knife. I notch an arrow, and we sneak down to the cave, the air around us suddenly charged with danger and expectation.

"Me, first," I whisper, wriggling my way inside before he can protest.

It's dark inside. The only light comes from the narrow crack I pushed through, and I wait for Gale to writhe his way through before I light a match. It's a very small space, just big enough for the two of us to stand side by side, and certainly not big enough for anyone to live in. Gale examines the walls, but there's nothing, only the tiniest crack from which a rush of bitterly cold air escapes.

I shiver as the match goes out. We stand in silence, neither wanting to admit that our search has come to nothing. And last, Gale sighs.

"Maybe we should just spend the night here," he says. "Our families will be worried, but it's better than taking our chances in the forest by night. I've spent the night outside the fence before, so my mother will probably figure that's what we're doing now."

"All right," I agree, although fear fills my heart at the thought of Prim, alone and unprotected back in the district. "But let's find a tree instead of staying in this cave. It's giving me the creeps."

Gale nods and struggles back through the entrance. I follow, almost out of the cave when my foot slips on something slick. Gale's there to catch me, though, his strong arm steady around my back, his face only inches from mine. Our eyes meet, gray on gray, and as he brings his other hand to rebalance the bow on my shoulder – an oddly intimate gesture – I find myself looking at his lips.

"Or maybe we should try to make it home." I tear myself savagely away from him, heat flooding my face. "Prim is going to be – "

I stop, staring down at my boots. My _wet _boots. I have just walked straight into a river.

"Gale." My voice is high and unnatural. "Was this here before?"

"It must have been." He is trying his best to sound unconcerned. "Rivers just don't appear over the span of ten minutes."

"Let's go home," I beg.

"Yeah, all right."

Our pace is swift as we hurry through the tall trees. Darkness is fast descending, and everywhere I look there are menacing shadows of wild animals ready to leap out at us. My bow is notched and prepared, but I don't have to use it. We manage to make it out of the woods unharmed – breathless and filthy, but all in one piece.

"We'll talk more about this tomorrow," mutters Gale, as we hurry to the spot where we usually sneak under the fence.

Except, the fence isn't there.

"Did we come out the wrong place?" I ask, staring at the empty meadow in consternation. But it's definitely the meadow, our meadow, dotted with dandelions and buttercups.

"Home," is all Gale says. I don't even protest when he grabs my hand and pulls me after him. Maybe this whole day was a hallucination; maybe he picked the wrong herb to garnish our lunch and the whole thing is a shared delusion. Possibly. What other explanation could there be?

The Seam isn't there, either.

Well, there's houses, but not _our _houses. These houses are a little bit larger than ours, more solidly constructed, with more space between them. Gale and I don't even glance at one another before we take off for the town square. Like the houses in the Seam, it's there, but different. The shops seem larger, brighter, and a few of them even have their names written on shining placards above the storefronts. One of them says Walgreen's. The other, Starbucks.

And the cars. There's a few cars parked out in front, others making their way slowly down the wide, smooth street. The only car I've ever seen in the one that comes to take the tributes to the train station on Reaping day. They're not something that an ordinary citizen of District 12 can afford.

"Where _are_ we?" I mutter.

For as long as I've known him, Gale has always been so confident, so self-assured. So it frightens me more than anything else when I look over at him and see the look on his face, like he's a lost little child. It doesn't help that I'm feeling exactly the same way.

"Excuse me." We turn to see an older woman looking at us. She has a pleasant, chubby face, and short grayish hair, styled in curls atop her head. "You two lost?"

Gale and I glance cautiously at one another, neither sure whether to trust her.

"You've been hiking the Appalachian Trail?"

I recognize the word Appalachia from school, although the way the woman pronounces it is different from the way our teacher does. "Um, yes?" I say.

She smiles warmly. "Thought so. What happened to all your gear?"

"Lost it," says Gale. "In a… uh… landslide."

The woman's eyes widen. "Oh, my goodness! Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?"

"No, we're okay. But, uh, where are we?"

"Westmount, Virginia. Are you sure you don't want to be checked out by a doctor?

Westmount Virginia? Where is that? Neither Gale nor I have either heard that name before. And this woman, with her plump hands and unguarded smile, is certainly not from the districts – although she seems too normal and nice to be from the Capitol. She's dressed unpretentiously in denim pants and a long sleeve shirt made of soft gray material, with no make-up on her face and no wild designs carved into her skin. Where _are _we?

"Look here," she says, her smile faltering a little as she glances back and forth between us, "can I give you a ride somewhere? My granddaughter and I were just going to get something to eat – would you like to join us? Please, let me buy you two a meal."

I can tell it's on the tip of Gale's tongue to refuse, but I break in. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all," she says, smiling warmly as she motions for us to follow her to a silver car.

Gale glares at me, and I glare back. A fierce discussion with our eyes ensues.

_What else are we going to do?_ I say. _She's our best chance to figure out what's going on._

_We can't trust her,_ Gale responds. _Who offers help to someone they don't know like that? _

_Maybe she's nice, _I suggest. _We must look terrible. _

_Nice, my foot, _Gale's eyes flash. _How the heck are we supposed to pay her back for the meal?_

I shrug, trying to ignore my own concern for this particular point.

The back of the car is big, with comfortable beige seats and a peculiar smell that I can't place. It's not bad, exactly, but not exactly natural, either.

The woman smiles at me through a little window attached to the front windshield. She is probably the most smile-y person I have ever met. "That new car smell," she grins. "Only just bought this car last week, so it hasn't disappeared yet. We're going to give the old car to my grandson when he turns sixteen this month. What do you think?"

I think that, if this woman can so calmly discuss owning not one, but two, cars, as though it is nothing, then Gale and I should not feel guilty for letting her buy a meal for us. But I don't say anything, wondering if this seemingly nice woman does, in fact, have an ulterior motive up her sleeve.

"My name's Sherilyn, by the way," she says, starting the ignition.

"Gale," he replies shortly.

For the first time, the girl in the front seat shows some interest. She looks up from the shiny little screen she had been staring into, and looks back at the two of us, one of her eyebrows raised. She's about my age, or a little younger, with curly brown hair pulled up into a ponytail.

"Gale?" she asks, as though he's trying to play a joke on her. "Are you serious? Like the Hunger Games? And who are you?" she continues, pointing at me with a smirk. "Katniss Everdeen?"

I stare at the girl in amazement. How did she know my name? And why is Gale's name linked with the Hunger Games? He's never been a tribute. There are a lot of things that Gale's name might be linked to in District 12 – hunting, yes, the black market, maybe. But the Games?

Gale's eyes widen, not so noticeably that the two in the front seat would notice, but I can tell he's as shocked as I am. "No. Her name is… River."

I glare at him. What did he do, pick the first word that came into his head?

"Did ya'll get lost on the way home from Comic Con or something?"

"Hilary," Sherilyn warns. "You're being rude."

Hilary shrugs, and grins into her shining screen. "Hey, I'm not judging. It's a pretty good cosplay, actually. Can I get a picture with you guys once we get to the restaurant? It's not every day that you meet Gale Hawthorne and Katniss Everdeen… oh, sorry, _River_. Is the Doctor going to show up, too?"

"You'll have to pardon my granddaughter," says Sherilyn. "I don't know what she's talking about, half the time."

"It's mutual, Grandma," laughs Hilary. "Glenn Miller what?"

Gale's whole body has tensed up, as though he's ready to spring out of the car at a moment's notice. I'm tempted to do the same. This whole thing keeps getting stranger and stranger. But if they know our names, what other clues to our strange situation do they hold? I scoot an inch or two closer to Gale, so that we're almost touching, and put a restraining hand on his knee.

_We need to get out of here_, his eyes say.

_Let's wait, _I plead.

_I don't like it._

_Me, neither. But what else are we going to do?_

"Hope ya'll like Taco Bell," says Sherilyn, parking the car in front of a free standing building with colorful advertisements plastered on the windows. "It's one the only things open this late."

Gale and I follow as she enters the building through a glass door, and goes up to a brightly lit counter.

"What would you guys like?"

It's so bright in here that it's hurting my eyes. Most of the houses in the Seam are lit with candles and kerosene lamps, when they can be afforded. I squint as I try to make sense of the lighted pictures behind the counter. They appear to be portraying food, but I don't recognize any of it.

"I'll have a number one with a coke," says Hilary easily.

"Me, too," I agree. Gale nods, and we follow Hilary to a table in the corner. She sits, knowing brown eyes appraising us calmly. "Those really are fantastic costumes. How long did it take you to put them together? Your boots are amazing."

"Uh, thanks."

"Your name can't really be Gale," she continues, turning her attention to him. "Right? I bet it's Brian or Phil or something like that."

"Yes," agrees Gale. "That's it. Brian."

She smirks. "Thought so. Are you in college, Brian?"

"Yes." Agreeing to everything, no matter how incomprehensible, seems to be his strategy. I can't decide if it's brilliant or idiotic. "Are you?"

She laughs. "I'm still in high school. What about you, River?"

Oh, right. River. Me. "I'm in college, too." If it's good enough for Gale, it's good enough for me.

"You look awful young," she replies doubtfully, but before she can say anything else, Sherilyn has returned with the food, and is setting down a tray between Gale and me. I've never seen anything like it. There are two tube-like things wrapped in colorful paper and two tall, brightly colored cups. I watch uncertainly as Hilary unrolls one of her tubes. There's what looks to be some kind of bread inside, fine and smooth and white, strange in appearance but closer to the fancy bread at the baker's than our daily tesserae rations.

I look at Gale, who shrugs and unrolls his own tube. It smells okay, so I follow suit.

Whatever it is, it's not terrible. The spices are unfamiliar, and I don't like the drink, something dark and too sweet that makes the back of my throat feel funny. But the food is filling, and there's a lot of it. I guess, wherever we are, the people here don't starve.

The conversation consists mainly of Sherilyn and Hilary asking us questions about ourselves, and us following Gale's strategy of agreeing to everything they say. By the end of the conversation, we've led them to believe that we're both college students hiking the Appalachian Trail on spring break, whatever that means. We're both from some place called Georgia (Hilary says our accents are a dead giveaway) and we've lost all our money and our phones as well as all our gear. The only time we don't answer yes to one of their questions is when Hilary asks us if we are dating.

"Of course not," I answer quickly, my face growing hot. "Why would you think that?"

She just considers me with that too-knowing smirk and takes another slurp of that funny brown stuff.

"You guys have to stay with us tonight," insists Sherilyn, once we stand to leave.

"We don't have any money," I tell her.

"Yeah, that's why you have to! Do you think I would just abandon you, with no money or place to stay? Your parents would never forgive me. You can call them in the morning, and explain the situation."

Not likely. But having a place to stay doesn't seem like a bad idea, and I'm so full and bloated from the meal that I'm finding it difficult to argue. I look at Gale.

_They seem okay_, his eyes say. _A little stupid, but all right._

_And they're our best bet for finding out what's going on, _I conclude.

Sherilyn's house is not where the Seam used to be. In fact, it's not in any part of the District 12 we know, but a little further south, beyond the reaches of the fence that's no longer there. I would say that it is the biggest house that I've ever seen, except that there are houses even bigger in her neighborhood.

_Who is this person? _my eyes ask Gale as we follow the strange old woman up the front walk, as she unlocks a beautiful mahogany door inlaid with crystal. Inside, the house is even more fantastic. Plush brown carpets, shiny wooden floors. Electric lights in every single room, and three bathrooms, each with hot running water. Three bedrooms, the beds with downy comforters that look like the warmest things I've ever seen, and one whole room devoted to stacks and stacks of fine-woven material, a fancy automatic sewing machine sitting in one corner. Sherilyn gives us a quick tour, her voice nonchalant, even apologetic. She keeps talking about how her daughter's house, thirty minutes away, is bigger and nicer.

_She can't be real, _Gale's eyes respond. But somehow, she is.

Sherilyn's husband is a man named Bob, a straight-backed older man with a white mustache and sympathetic blue eyes. He says he's a retired army chaplain and a volunteer police officer. The police officer job, as he describes it, sounds kind of like a Peacemaker, except that (with the possible exception of Darius) none of our Peacekeepers are as nice as he seems to be.

"We'll get you two sorted out in no time," says Bob, sending a kind smile my way. "In the meantime, how about a shower? I bet Hilary has some clothes you can borrow, River, and I think we have some old clothes of our son's lying around somewhere. He was about your size when he was your age, Brian."

I let Hilary lead me to a bathroom on the second floor. When she disappears to find some clothes for me, and I stare at the shower in amazement, not sure how to work it. Hilary laughs when she returns to my predicament.

"No one can figure out how to work this faucet," she says. "I keep telling Grandma she needs to replace it, but she's so weird about money."

The shower isn't bad. I let the hot water run down my body, washing away today's dirt and grime. Where is Prim right now, I wonder? Sleeping, maybe, curled up beside my mother on the thin mattress in front of the fire? Is she all right? Or has District 12 already been destroyed, is it being destroyed as I stand here, surrounding by glistening ivory and the gentle spray of warm water?

My hair hangs in damp waves as I make my way back downstairs, soaking into the light blue shirt that Hilary provided for me. She's also let me borrow a pair of loose flannel pants and some short, multi-colored socks that don't even cover my ankles. Gale, standing just where the kitchen and the living area meet, is wearing a collarless white shirt and similar flannel pants, and holding a cup of water as he avidly listens to Bob telling a story about a hunting trip he went on last summer.

As I take my place by Gale's side, Bob smiles at me and asks if I feel better now. I agree, because really, what else can I say, and he turns to answer the question that Sherilyn has just asked him from the kitchen.

"They hunt for sport," Gale mutters.

"Where do they get their food from, then?"

Gale shrugs. "Taco Bell, I guess."

I am just considering this when Hilary bounds down the stairs. She, too, has changed clothes and is now wearing a pair of black shorts and a shirt similar in design to mine, only pink. "Grandma said we could stay up and watch a movie. What do you want to watch? Oh, I know… wanna have a Hunger Games marathon, since you're both so into it?"

Gale and I exchange alarmed glances. A Hunger Games marathon? Maybe this is the Capitol, after all.

Hilary laughs as she motions for us to follow her deeper into the living area, where she falls to her knees in front of a small cabinet. She rummages around inside for a few minutes before pulling out two rectangular boxes, and pushes one into my hand while she sets to fidgeting with some sort of electronic device underneath the TV set.

"Catching Fire," I read, the smooth box glistening in the white lights overhead. There's a girl on one side, bow poised as though she's about to let the arrow fly. "What is this?"

"Um, a movie?" says Hilary, settling herself on one side of an oversized blue couch. "Come on, guys. Grandma's making popcorn."

Gingerly, I take the spot take to Hilary and, after a moment more, Gale takes the spot on my other side. The couch is ridiculous. It's so cushioned that I sink in nearly a foot, and I'm not sure that I will ever be able to get out of it again. Gale is frowning, his hand gripping the arm as though he were an animal caught in one of his own snares.

"Make yourselves comfortable," says Sherilyn, coming into the room with a large bowl in her hands. Bob follows, some shiny red cans in one hand and another, smaller, bowl in the other.

"Yuck," says Hilary, peering into the small bowl. "You've gotten the peanut ones, again. I like plain the best." Nevertheless, she pops a few of the colorful spheres into her mouth, and crunches contentedly as she fiddles with a small, rectangular piece of plastic, pushing various buttons as she points it towards the television.

Bob hands me one of the shiny red cans and I accept it, because it would be rude not to. But I wonder how these people can even imagine eating again, after the filling dinner we had not even two hours ago. My stomach still feels full to bursting.

Another picture of the girl, the one who was on the box that Hilary handed me, appears on the screen, and Sherilyn purses her lips. "This movie again? I don't understand what you like about it, Hilary."

"Two words: Josh Hutcherson." Hilary winks at me, as though I'm supposed to appreciate this response.

Sherilyn rolls her eyes and she and Bob tell us good night. Together they ascend the plush staircase to their bedroom.

"Do you like Peeta or Gale better?" Hilary asks me.

I stare at her, at a loss for what she means. I do know someone back in the district named Peeta – Peeta Mellark, the baker's son. But I've never spoken to him. How does she even know about him? And why in the world would she be asking me if I like him better than Gale, my best friend? Why in the world would she be asking that question at all?

The question is so ridiculous, that part of me doesn't even want to bother with a response. But since Gale is sitting right next to me, and who knows what he's thinking about it all, I reply: "Gale."

She sighs in mock disappointment. "I should have guessed. I don't understand you Galeniss shippers, not at all. After what he did in _Mockingjay_? Peeta is obviously the perfect choice for her."

Even though this comment is nearly incomprehensible, I can feel Gale tensing beside me, and I'm glad when Hilary whispers, "It's starting now. Be quiet."

I turn my focus from her strange questions to the television screen, and for the next two hours I stare, in horror, at the story that unfolds there. It is _my _story – a story about me, although not something that I've ever experienced. I watch as Prim is Reaped, as I volunteer for her, as I am thrown into the arena. As Peeta Mellark, a boy I've never even exchanged three words with, declares his love for me and fights to keep me alive. As the little girl from District 11, my ally, dies in my arms. As I team up with Peeta, kiss him, risk my life for him. As I defy the Capitol with a handful of nightlock and I become a Victor, the co-victor of the 74th Hunger Games.

"Where did that come from?" I demand, as Hilary presses a button and the screen goes dark.

"Hollywood," Hilary shrugs, stretching and placing a sort of miniature TV, which she had been busily typing into the last half of the movie, on the low table in front of her. "Based on the books. I thought you guys were fans?"

"You said there's another one?" Gale's voice is quiet, low, bordering on dangerous. I remember him – the strange him from the television that isn't him – and the pain on his face as he watched me – the me who isn't me – in the arena. Would he really react that way, if something like that happened? If that something like that happened! My heart races at the thought. The next Reaping is only a month and a half away. Is this my future?

"Yeah," yawns Hilary. "It's late, and I'm going to bed. But you guys can watch it if you want. The guest bedroom down the hall is yours, the one with the yellow bedspread. Just turn off the television when you're ready to sleep."

"Would you set the next movie up for us?" I ask.

"Sure. And oh, by the way, ya'll can use my laptop if you want to check your e-mail or facebook or anything. Just go ahead and close me out of whatever I was doing."

This makes as little sense as anything she's said all evening, but I just nod, frantic for the next movie to start, to learn what happens next. After what seems to be an intolerably long time, she finally finishes setting it up and, popping a few more of the colorful little spheres in her mouth, disappears up the same staircase that her grandparents had.

The movie starts and I watch, transfixed, as the person who is supposed to be me finds herself more and more ensnared in the Capitol's machinations. The painful distance between her and Gale, her desperate efforts to keep up pretenses with Peeta – efforts that come to nothing. The man in District 11, shot before my eyes. Gale's whipped and bloodied back. Me, going back into the arena – a tribute not once, but twice. The deaths – oh so many deaths. And then, the worst. Gale's beaten and anguished face as he tells me, the me up on the screen, that there is no more District 12. That it's all gone. That all my efforts, all my striving, have been for nothing.

The screen goes dark. Gale and I sit together in the blackness of the room, neither one of us moving, neither one of us speaking, neither one of us even daring to breath.

"Is that the future?" I manage at last, my voice dry and brittle in my ears.

"Not if I can help it." With some effort he pulls himself out from the depths of the couch, every muscle in his body poised for violent action. "Where did this come from? Who are these people? Who are _we_?'

The last question, I realize, is the best one. It is also the most unanswerable.

I scoot over to the tiny television that Hilary had in her lap during the movie, and press a button tentatively. The screen lights up, revealing lots of little pictures. I squint and lean forward to try to understand what I'm seeing.

"What is it?" asks Gale.

"Nothing!" I exclaim, trying to figure out a way to turn the stupid thing off, before he can see. But I'm not quick enough, and he's by my side in an instant, peering into the little screen. His breath catches in anger as he realizes what he's seeing, and I blush and move away, as though it was somehow my fault that the screen is decorated with twenty variations of the me who isn't me kissing the Peeta who isn't Peeta.

"Fantastic," growls Gale, pushing the screen away from us. "Just great."

"I didn't do it!" I exclaim, wondering why I feel the need to justify myself to him. "I don't even know Peeta Mellark! That thing with the bread, that's the only time we've ever even looked at each other."

As soon as I say it, I know it's not quite true. Many times, over the years, I've looked up during school to find Peeta's gaze fixed on me. And I guess I must have been looking at him, too, if I've noticed him looking at me. But now is not the time to correct the truth in the statement.

"That's not the point," says Gale, although the way his eyes stray back to the screen, the way his eyebrows furrow and his jaw tightens, makes me think he's not being quite truthful, either. "The point is, our district is on the brink of destruction. People are dying, Katniss, or at least they're going to. And what is it these people here are obsessed with? Who you're kissing? That's the one thing they take from… from… _that_? Are you sure this isn't the Capitol?"

The question hangs heavily in the air, but it's competing for competition with all the other sounds that crowd the night. The ticking of a clock in the next room. The hum of a thousand different electronic devices. The rush of cars on the street outside – where are they going, so late? What is there at this time of night even to see?

"What are we going to do?" I ask miserably.

He glares angrily at the small screen on the table. "Is there another one, another… what is it, movie? That didn't seem like the ending. It couldn't have been. Where can we find the next one?"

For the next hour, Gale and I tear the house inside out, looking for a third little box with that strange girl's picture on it. She doesn't really look like me, not really. She's taller, paler, more glamorous. The Gale who isn't Gale is closer to the Gale beside me, although he's not as dark and, in my opinion, not as handsome. Or maybe just not as familiar. I try to imagine the Gale and Katniss who aren't Gale and Katniss out hunting in the woods, and I find myself wondering what they would say to one another. Maybe they'd just sit around kissing. They did do an awful lot of kissing.

"It's not here." Gale's voice is frustrated as he collapses back into the blue couch, rubbing his temples as though attempting to stave off a headache.

I want to go sit next to him, to lend my strength to his, to feel his warmth next to mine. But the memory of all that kissing stops me. "Let's try and sleep," I suggest. "In the morning we can ask Hilary."

It's not a great suggestion, but it's the only one I have. After setting the room back in place, we creep to the guest bedroom, the one that Sherilyn has set aside for us. There is only one bed, larger than any mattress I've ever seen and plenty big for the two of us plus all of our siblings, but I don't argue when Gale strips off the yellow comforter to make himself a pallet on the floor.

Even without the comforter, I've never slept on anything as soft, and sleep comes slow and uneasily. I've just entered that sort of hazy realm between dreaming and waking when I hear Gale's voice.

"You've really never talked to Peeta Mellark?" he asks.

"Never."

"Well, okay," he says, but his voice is far from satisfied. I think about saying something more, but what can I say? I'm still considering it when sleep at last claims me, and I am finally lost to this strange, new world.

* * *

"Oh, _Mockingjay_." Hilary sticks a forkful of scrambled egg into her mouth, sighing in mock despair. "It hasn't come out yet. The first part is due in November."

"But you said there was a book, right?" I ask. "Where could we find it?"

"There might still be a long hold list at the library," she muses. "The bookstore will have it, though."

"Where is it? The bookstore?"

"There's one downtown, where we met you. I would take you except that my mom's coming to pick me up this morning."

"We can find it," says Gale, declining a fifth helping of bacon and toast. We might be in a hurry, but still I allow Sherilyn to slip me one last piece of bacon, and Gale allows me to finish it before he stands and addresses the older lady. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"Did you get in touch with your parents?"

"Uh, yeah."

Sherilyn smiles, her kindly face relieved. "Good."

_We should give her something_, my eyes tell Gale.

_Like what? _he asks. _We don't have anything but the clothes on our backs._

He's correct, of course, but it still doesn't feel right, leaving her with nothing after all that she's done for us. So even though we're anxious to get the bookstore, we stay long enough to wash the dishes – a small thing, but at least it's something.

We're about to leave, almost out the door, when Bob stops us.

"Here," he says, pushing a few stiff, green papers into Gale's hands. "You take this, all right?"

Gale stares down at the highly ornate slips in his hand, his eyebrows furrowing as he attempts to work out what exactly they are.

"I wish we could give you more," says Bob, "but that should be enough money to get you a bus ride home."

Gale's eyes widen as though he has just been handed a horde of trackerjackers, and he attempts to push the money back into Bob's hands. "We can't take this."

"Nonsense," replies Bob. "How else are you going to get home? Find meals for yourself until you do? If your parents want to, they can send us the money later, to pay us back. You know where we live."

I eye the money longingly. Gale is right – we have nothing but the clothes on our own backs, freshly laundered in Sherilyn's fancy automatic washing machine. What exactly are we going to do once we get to the bookstore? Afterwards? Having this money would definitely help us out. But it's also a debt that neither of us could ever begin to repay.

"Our parents… our parents don't really have the money to pay you back," I say, through the lump rising in my throat. "And I don't know if we're ever going to be back this way again."

"All the better," says Bob, pushing the money back into Gale's hands. "A gift. You've got to learn to accept grace, young lady. Please take it."

Grace? What's that? Grace doesn't exist in District 12, where we eke out a living by the strength of our wills and eventually succumb to death at the hand of the Capitol's. But wherever this is, it isn't Panem, and it's clear that Bob isn't going to take no for an answer.

"Thank you," I say.

He smiles. "Best of luck to you two. Hope to see ya'll again one of these days."

Gale nods and the two of us are off. It's a long walk back to the town square, but nothing that we can't handle. Hilary made us a map, so we don't have to worry about going the wrong direction, which otherwise might have been a distinct possibility. Neither of us were in frame of mind last night to effectively note landmarks – even if it were possible, speeding through the dark at forty miles an hour.

I let Gale walk a little bit ahead. He hasn't mentioned Peeta or the Hunger Games again, but the thought of each lingers uncomfortably in the spaces between our words, the indirectness of our glances. I want to ask him what he makes of it all, but for some reason the very thought of that conversation makes me nervous. So, instead, we walk in silence, and yesterday's images keep replaying over and over in my mind. Dead people I don't even know. Rue. Thresh. Cinna. Mags. Will I know them? Will I cry for them? Will they haunt me forever, these people I know in death that I never knew in life?

And then there's the fear – the endless nagging fear. Who else will die before it's all over? Prim? My mother? Gale? Peeta? _Me_?

We arrive downtown around noon. By this time my stomach is grumbling, so we stop first at a small restaurant adjacent to the bookstore. The food there is a little more normal than the food last night – pieces of salted meat and crisp vegetables stuck between slices of good, thick bread – but still better in both quality and quantity than anything we've ever had in District 12.

We don't speak much during the meal, not anymore than we have to, and we're both finished and disposing our trash before Gale mutters, his voice dark with a fury I suppose has been festering the whole morning: "I still can't believe they did that to you. Put you in the arena twice."

"They haven't done anything yet. It might never happen."

"Maybe not." The murder in his tone, however, belies how little he believes me. When it comes right down to it, I'm not sure I believe myself. "How do you think we're going to find that book?" I ask him hastily, more to get my mind off the arena than anything else.

A little bell tinkles as we enter the bookstore. Gale smirks and points to a prominent display right in front of us, laden with red, black, and blue books. _The Hunger Games_.

"Well, that was easy," I mutter.

He grins and we each grab a copy of the book in blue. _Mockingjay_. It seems a little bit of a waste, to buy two separate copies, but I know that there's no way that I'm going to wait for Gale to finish reading it first, or vice versa.

"Ah, _The Hunger Games_," sniffs the pale-faced clerk, peering down at our purchases through thick glasses. "Everyone likes these books, but I don't know. I find that Katniss girl kind of annoying."

"You and me both," grins Gale, and it's refreshing to hear him tease me again, to feel us slipping back into a somewhat normal relationship. I roll my eyes and take the books from the cashier. Gale follows me to the door, in front of which I have already stopped and am now doing all that I can to block his attempt to get through. This results in a brief tussle, which results in us both leaving the bookstore smiling and in a much better frame of mind than when we entered it.

"I wonder if our meeting place exists in this world?"

"Only one way to find out," says Gale. "You ready to lose?"

"A question that you should be asking yourself," I grin, and the two of us take off running. I win, of course, and have already flung myself in the tall grass by the time he arrives.

"So it does exist," he says, collapsing beside me.

"Sort of," I agree. "Back at our spot, back in District 12, the grass is worn down from years of us sitting there. It doesn't look like anyone ever sits here."

"Do you think we're in the future?" asks Gale meditatively. "Maybe we become famous, fighting for the rebellion, and these are a kind of history book. Maybe this civilization here, is the civilization we build, once we get rid of the Capitol."

I think about Sherilyn and Bob and Hilary. Are they our descendents? There's some strange things about this place, but overall, it's not that bad, and the people seem happy and healthy. They're definitely rich and well cared for. But, still, something about the thought seems wrong.

"I think that… well, if we were historical… if this stuff had already happened for them… wouldn't there be a little more _respect _in the way that they talk about the Games? People here just seem to talk about them… about us… like we're _entertainment_."

When I put it that way, it doesn't seem to make them any different from the masses at the Capitol, but that's not exactly right, either. In my world, the Games were designed as the chief distraction of the people, a desperate attempt for political stability. The Games, in the eyes of the Capitol at least, are _necessary_. I remember the disapproving look on Sherilyn's face when Hilary said she wanted to watch the movie. Here, the Games are something that people can take or leave based on personal preference. Easily ignored if desired, and as easily indulged if inclination swings the other way. What is it about the story of my destruction that appeals to Hilary, safe and secure in leisure and comfort?

And what does it say about the genuinely good-hearted Sherilyn, about the society that shaped her, that she can so easily ignore the same? Does she feel no fear when she thinks of my story? Is the possibility of it so far removed from her daily existence that her protestations stop at simply pursed lips and a retreat up the stairs? In a way, it's almost a greater lack of respect than Hilary's misguided enthusiasm.

I don't know if Gale's thoughts are running along the same line, but his voice is curiously absent of emotion as he proposes: "Let's read. Maybe this book will give us the answer."

It doesn't.

I'm to the part where Peeta – this strange Peeta who might be the Peeta I know back in District 12, if ever I spoke to him long enough to find out – has just been rescued from the Capitol, and I'm about to meet him again, when Gale snaps shut his book.

"It's getting dark," he says.

"What do you suggest we do?" I ask, a little cross at having been interrupted at such a place.

"Last night Bob was telling me about a kind of inn not too far from here, where I guess a lot of hikers stay. We have the money he gave us."

"Fine," I agree, anxious to continue reading. I gesture to the book in his hands. "How far did you get?"

His eyes narrow. "I don't think I like this story, Catnip."

I sigh. "Me, neither, not much."

Silently we trek back to town, the previous light easiness between us all but vanished with the setting sun. We find the inn with little problem, and secure ourselves a room. It's a lot smaller then Bob and Sherilyn's house – just four plain walls, with a set of beds stacked up on each other pushed against the side. There's a small window, though, with real glass, and a bathroom – which, although much less luxurious in feel than the one at Sherilyn's house, still has hot running water.

We buy a small meal at a nearby restaurant and then settle in for the night to read. I let Gale take the bed on the bottom while I climb up to the bed on the top, grateful for the small privacy that it grants. I have a premonition that the ending of this book is one that I'll need some time to think about on my own.

By the last page, I am speechless. I simply stare at the final words, unable to even comprehend what I have just read. This cannot be Sherilyn's past. This cannot be my future. This is… I don't know what this is. There is no adjective strong enough to describe my horror.

Prim. Madge. Gale. Everything, everyone I love. Gone. I feel a surge of hatred for whoever wrote this book, but seeing as though I don't have a face to connect to the name, my hatred falls instead to Hilary and Sherilyn, to the clerk at the bookstore, to the pair of girls that Gale and I overheard talking in the restaurant this evening.

"Yeah, I thought _Catching Fire _was awesome," one of the girls had told her friend. "I can't wait for _Mockingjay. _It's gonna be amazing!"

I sit, fuming, until I hear the snap of Gale's book, the creak of his bed as he rises. I watch as he enters the bathroom, shuts the door. I wait, straining my ears for the sound of curses, of tears, of anything. There's nothing. It's a really long time before he comes out again.

"You awake?" he whispers, once he finally reappears.

I don't reply, and he snaps off the light. But I don't think that either of us sleep.

* * *

It's a silent morning. I don't bother getting out of bed, but Gale disappears for an hour or two around sunrise. When he comes back, he tosses some food up to me – a fruit that I think might be an orange, and some packaged bread.

"I made arrangements to keep the room for another night," he tells me. "Seeing as we have no idea what to do next."

I tear into the package and take a bite of bread that doesn't taste. "Okay."

The bed creaks as he sits. "You finished the book."

"Yeah."

The silence stretches long between us. Finally: "What did you think?"

What kind of ridiculous question is that? At least it's such a stupid one that it succeeds in rousing me from the stupor that I've fallen into. I leap off the bed, the book clutched in both hands.

"Why do people read this stuff?" I demand.

It takes Gale a moment to answer. "I don't know," he says at last. His voice is strangely even, empty of its customary rage, and his eyes refuse to meet mine. "Maybe it gives them hope."

"Hope?" My voice is rising in anger. "You finished it, too! You know what happens! Hope? It's worth all of that, me going through all of that, just to give people hope?"

His voice is quiet. "Maybe."

I glare at him, my fury further stoked by the uncharacteristic lack of his. Does he accept it, then? Has he resigned himself to the inevitability of this future? Is he glad for it, even, glad for the crushing success of his glorious rebellion?

"And is it worth it, what you did to Prim?" I shout, throwing the book at his chest with all my strength. "That's worth it, too, right? The ends always justify the means?"

"I haven't done anything to Prim, Katniss." His voice is pained, whether from my accusation or the book-shaped bruise surely forming on his chest, I don't know.

"But you _will_. Someday you will."

All through our conversation he has been trying to extricate his own bit of bread from its wrapper, but for once his strong, slender fingers have lost all their finesse. Now, all at once, he gives a frustrated growl and throws the package to the floor, shooting up to his full height.

"Well, what else am I supposed to do? Just sit around and watch the Capitol destroy everything that's precious? Whatever I did – will do – might do – I did it for you. For my family. For District 12. For Panem."

"For Prim." My voice is dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes." He hurls the accursed book across the room, and it collides against the opposite wall with a forceful thump. "For Prim."

"How you can even – "

"You know what? I don't even care anymore. You go find your own way back to District 12, back to your precious Peeta Mellark, who lives for nothing but to cater to your all-consuming egocentrism. You are not the only one who has suffered, Katniss Everdeen, and you are not the only one who will."

His voice breaks a little on the last word and a shadowy memory surfaces, one from our world – Prim on Gale's shoulders, the both of them laughing as he spins her around in the golden sunlight. He loves her, too, Gale does.

I push the thought angrily from my mind. "Fine," I spit. "I will."

And then, there's nothing left for me but to storm out of the room, which I do. I am halfway across town before I realize that Gale has all the money, and I have nothing – not even the stupid book. Just the clothes on my back and the festering anger in my heart.

I go back to the bookstore. It's busier than last time, and no one notices as I pluck three books from the Hunger Games display and weave my way deeper into the store. There are rows and rows of books, more than I've ever seen in my life, and I settle into a darkened corner, surrounded by large books with pictures of buildings and mountains on their covers. I stare for a long time at the cover of a book marked "The Smoky Mountains: A Hiker's Guide," thinking how peaceful the mountains look and how much I wish I was there, that Prim was there with me – the two of us together, our happiness unmarred by the jarring speculations – or are they historical records? – of _Mockingjay_. I turn the imaginary picture of the two of us over and over again in my mind, desperate to find the promise of truth in it, even as I recognize the thought of dainty Prim roughing a wild mountain pass is one of the most ridiculous ones that I've ever had.

I don't read the other books, _The Hunger Games _and _Catching Fire_, cover to cover. I just open them to random places and read whatever passage strikes me. The story, as much as I'm hoping otherwise, is unchanged.

Is this me, this Katniss Everdeen contained within these pages? Would I really be so brave as to hold out those berries to Peeta in the arena? So cowardly as to contemplate running away from District 12, leaving the others to suffer in my place? So gentle with Rue, so cruel with Peeta, so manipulated by everyone? I think about my final decision, the one to condemn the children of the Capitol to a final Hunger Games. Would I do that? Would I really?

I don't know how long it is before someone comes up to me, addressing me with apologetic eyes. "I'm sorry, but we're closing a little early today. Would you like to purchase those?"

"Uh, no thanks." She nods and is about to turn away when I call out for her to wait. "These books," I manage, holding them up for her to see, "what _are _they exactly?"

"What do you mean?"

"Uh… are they historical?"

She laughs. "No. They're fiction. A made up story," she clarifies, seeing my blank look. "Katniss only exists in the minds of the readers."

I consider her words. Consider the blood pumping through my veins and the air passing through my lungs. What would happen if I cut myself? Would there be blood, or would ink instead ooze from my wound? "Do you like this… this made up story?"

"Yeah, I do."

"_Why_?"

She searches my face carefully, as though uncertain what to make of me. I don't blame her – I'm uncertain what to make of myself. "I don't know. I guess it's – well, Katniss is a hero, you know?"

This is too much. "No, she's not! She's weak and useless makes mistake after mistake, bringing nothing but pain to everyone who knows her. She's cruel and unforgiving and egocentric and…" I fade a little, trying to think of a word to explain the depths of loathing I feel for myself. "She's terrible."

"She's not perfect," the girl acknowledges. "But, then, neither am I. Real people, they make mistakes. Sometimes really terrible ones. It doesn't mean they can't be heroes. It just means that they're human. In fact, Katniss' fallibility might just be the reason that I love her so much. She gives me hope that, even on my worst days, I'm not defined entirely by my weaknesses."

"She didn't save Prim," I say miserably. "She's not worth loving."

The girl sighs. "Well, I'd take the pain and heartache of loving a real person over the shallow comfort of an unattainable ideal any day."

I think about the Katniss from the books, the cruel and useless Katniss who did such terrible things. When Peeta came back to District 12, at the end of _Mockingjay_, he knew all those things about her – knew how deep her darkness was, deeper and darker than any coal mine. And yet, he still chose to come back. To love her. To value her. To choose life with her. I wonder how long it took Katniss, that Katniss, to accept that love. And if she was ever capable of giving it back.

The girl motions to the books in my hands. "You sure you don't want to buy those?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

After the bookstore closes I don't have anywhere else to go, so I go to our meeting place, Gale's and mine. He's not there, but that's okay. I sit for a long time in the growing dusk, my hands on my knees, my chin in my hands.

It's dark by the time that I feel his presence next to mine. He has materialized in that old silent way of his, and I don't know how long it is that we sit together, with only the gentle sound of grass around us rustling and swaying in the cool night breeze.

"Why didn't you come back, after the war?" I ask at last. "Back to District 12?"

"I guess I didn't think you'd want to see me." He pauses, weighs the words, starts again: "I guess I didn't want to see you, and remember."

I press my lips together, consider the stars that fill the blue-black sky above us. The constellations are the same, right where they should be in mid-spring. I trace the Hunter, follow the point of his arrow across the sky as though it can somehow lead me to the thing I seek.

"Like how I abandoned hijacked Peeta, because I couldn't forgive myself for letting that happen to him."

"Maybe," muses Gale. "You and me, we're too alike for our own good."

"Fallible," I agree. "Human."

We sit so long the crickets fall silent, that the air grows damp and chilly around us.

"So what are we going to do now?" he asks at last.

"I don't know. According to the girl at the bookshop – we don't even really exist. We're only alive in the heads of people who read those books."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I feel pretty alive."

"Yeah." I pause. "You think there's a way back to District 12?"

"What would we do if there is? I mean, knowing what we know now?"

The question takes me by surprise. "Get Prim and the kids and run away, like we should have done at the very beginning."

"What about the rebellion?"

"What about it?" I ask hotly.

"Listen, the thought of you in that arena makes my blood run cold. But we have to think through this carefully. The decisions we make might have ramifications for the entire country. You're the spark that sets the rebellion in motion. Without you, who knows what might happen?"

It's a little much to hear Gale talk of thinking through possible ramifications. "Maybe District 12 wouldn't have been bombed. Maybe my sister would still be alive."

He doesn't rise to my bait. "Maybe she doesn't have to die this time," is all he says, his voice quiet, subdued.

"If I go to the Capitol, I'll just take that damn nightlock myself, let Peeta win, and be done with it."

"Could you do that?" wonders Gale. "Knowing what you know now, you could save Rue, too. What would you do, if it came down to that choice, whether to save Peeta or to save Rue?"

I haven't thought about this, but Gale doesn't seem to expect an answer. He's right, of course. I know now how Rue dies. I could head Marvel off, kill him before he kills her. Except that Marvel would still be dead at my hand, and it doesn't really seem like a solution to anything. Especially since there's only one winner of the Games, and the whole co-victor thing would never fly for tributes from separate districts. Rue would still have to die. Or Peeta would.

So who would I choose? To save an innocent little girl at the expense of the boy with the bread, the possible father of my future children, the person who plays an indispensible part in the events leading to the rebellion and liberation of the districts? (I suppose, despite everything, it still counts as a liberation.) How long would the Hunger Games continue, if Rue had survived to become the victor? Would Snow have sold her like he did Finnick, her innocent flesh to the highest bidder? How much would she have suffered, how many other tributes would have died?

But then, to save Peeta – and by extension, since my fleeting dream of suicide would accomplish nothing but condemn him to the same fate as Rue, _me_. To allow the timeline to continue uninterrupted, unhindered. To bring freedom to the districts. But at what cost? The life of an innocent girl who died too soon?

It is an impossible decision. I bury my head in my hands, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of it.

I don't know how long it is before Gale stands and pries my hand away from my face. "Let's go get some sleep," he mutters.

I stare at the dark hand holding my own, and for a moment the world spins around me. Where am I, which world am I in? Can I trust this hand, so capable of unimaginable cruelty, so full of unquenchable fire? And yet, it is hand that has never done anything to me, to anyone I love – nothing but help us survive. It was only two days ago that this hand so gently cleaned and bound the scrape Posy received when she tripped and fell while playing outside. Gale's been both father and brother to her since their father died. There is no doubt that anything this hand has done or might do, is – or at least was at first – motivated by love. But strange things happen down in the airless mines, far from nourishing sunlight and fresh air. Perhaps not even love cannot stay pure and natural in those stifling depths.

For the first time I consider how much of Gale's suffering is because of me – no, that's not the right way to say it, because that implies it was something I did or something I was that caused it. And this, it has nothing to do with me. This was a weight he _chose _to carry. He could have written me off as soon as I volunteered in the first Games. Honestly, I probably would have been tempted to do the same if the situation had been reversed. But he didn't. He stuck with me, suffered because I suffered, carried my pain as well as his own. How even the Capitol's treatment of Peeta was a sort of pain to him, solely because it was a source of pain for me. Because he hated to see me suffer. Because he loved me.

There's still Prim, but the thought of her, of Gale's possible part in her hypothetical death, is so nebulous and confusing as to be paralyzing. And I can't sit on this mountain all night. So I take his hand and let him lead us back to our temporary residence. And when he stretches out on the bottom bed, hands behind his head, eyes open for a sleepless night, I come and curl up beside him, my head on his chest where I can hear the steady beat of his heart, the familiar pattern of his breathing. He shifts slightly to wrap one arm around me, and we lie there together a long time, unspeaking. Both of us so broken, with hands so covered in blood – unforgiving, hard, self-protective to a fault.

Fallible.

Human.

Together.

"There was one thing I liked about it, at least," he says after awhile, "about reading that book. For once I had some idea what was going on in that head of yours."

I grimace. "Not a pretty place, is it?"

"I never realized how hard you are on yourself. If you were half as terrible as you think yourself… half as responsible for all the horrible things you take credit for… None of that was your fault, what happened to you or others in the arena or after, you know that, right?"

"I guess not."

"You are…" he pauses, and I know it's only the darkness between us that allows him to continue, "You are the most remarkable girl that I've ever met."

I can't help myself. "Well, I guess you've known a few."

I can feel him grinning. "You jealous, Catnip?"

"Of course not. Just curious. You've never mentioned anything like that before. How many girls _have_ you kissed?"

"You are the most oblivious person in the world. An endearing quality, mind you, at least most of the time. I'm sure I was only saying those things because I was desperately trying to make you feel half as jealous for me as I was of Peeta. Am still jealous of him, I should say."

"So all that stuff is true, about Darius and the rabbit and you minding?"

"Yes."

If he had told me this even last week, I don't know what I would have done. Pulled away, made excuses for why we couldn't hunt together any more. I think of the years I've spent building up thick defenses against any idea of romantic love, marriage, the possibility of children. And yet, what good did it do? Pushing away Gale, the way I did in those books, didn't keep any of the things I was so afraid of from happening. And if it's all going to happen, regardless of how hard I try to shut myself away, then what's the point?

What do I feel for Gale? Right now, the me who is still me – the one who hasn't been Reaped, who hasn't been forced together with Peeta, who hasn't had to yield every personal desire to the mad drive for survival?

_What do you feel?_ I ask the girl I was last week, pressing her for an answer. She is customarily elusive, noncommittal, a little frightened. But underneath it all… relief? Even a tiny flicker of gladness?

"Thank you," I whisper, hiding my face in his shirt.

He chuckles. "I never know what to expect from you, you know?"

"Well, you know, District 12. We've still got a bit of spontaneity in us. Makes for good television."

"So I've heard." His voice darkens and his arm around me tightens, as though afraid that someone will burst through the door to take me away.

"So what exactly is it about me that's so remarkable?" I ask in attempt to lighten the air.

He strokes my hair as he considers the question. "Your determination. Your courage. Your sorrow."

"My sorrow?"

"You and I, we're so different that way. You let yourself feel it. You let it give you strength. Like what you did for Rue, with the flowers in her hair. Your ability to sorrow so deeply, even after so much loss… I've never seen anything like it. I'm not like that, not at all. You know what I was thinking, that day our fathers died? As I stood watching them pull miner after mutilated miner from that accursed ground, as my mother stood beside me, her swollen belly pressed against the rail, striving for just a glimpse of him? It wasn't sorrow, I'll tell you. I remember thinking that every person pulled out of that mine was a debt, a debt that the Capitol owed District 12, and that I was determined to collect. You can bet that's what I was thinking when I blew up that mountain in District 2. A life for a life."

He pauses, allowing his voice to simmer down, the passion swirl away like steam. "I guess what I didn't see is that the debt never stops growing. It's a useless cycle, vengeance is, an inescapable snare. You understood that, though, you and your sorrow."

"So would you do it again? Destroy the Nut like you did?"

He sighs. "I don't know. What else could we have done?"

It's a good question.

"What if there's not even any way to change it?" I ask suddenly, cold fear filling my heart at the thought. "What if there's no way of escaping what's already been written out for us?"

"There's at least one escape," he says quietly. "We could do it, you and I."

"Just stay here?" I'm not sure how the suggestion makes me feel, angry or sad or relieved. "What about our families?"

"I don't know. But, here's the thing. Technically, you and I exist before the story does. I mean, if this had happened – us finding our way to this place, reading that book, learning the future – if this really happened, wouldn't we already know about it, the us in the books? But we don't. It's all a surprise to us in the story, and the books haven't changed to reflect our new expectations. Only you and I are different. Maybe… we were given a gift. Maybe we exist separately from the story, now, and there's no way of going back even if we wanted to."

"You're saying we should forget about Prim. Your family. District 12. That they don't exist the same way we do."

He sighs. "When you put it that way, of course it sounds wrong. Of course they exist, too."

"But in what way?" I muse. "How do _we _exist?"

But how can either of us even begin to know the answer to that?

"How about this?" Gale proposes after a while. "Let's go back to the cave tomorrow, try to get back to District 12. And once we're there, we'll gather everyone and escape. If we got out of the story, that means that the others might be able to get out, too. We'll get Prim and your mother, and my family, and Madge and Darius and Peeta and whoever else we can convince to come. We'll lead them here, where they can all be safe."

As I mull the idea over in my mind, the faces of people I don't even know rise in protest, begging for remembrance. Cinna. Finnick. Rue. Mags. Could I really leave them behind? "How does that make us any different from District 13?" I ask at last. "Protecting ourselves at the expense of the other districts?"

"Well, what else do you suggest we do?"

"Maybe we could go back for them, another time," I muse, wondering uncomfortably if this was the reasoning of 13, back in the Dark Days.

"If we can," he promises. "Although the chances are that, even if we find our way back to District 12, we're going to be stuck there. Who knows what brought us here, and if it will happen again?"

"It will happen again." The thought of it not is too terrifying to even be considered.

And so as soon as the first light of dawn creeps in through the window, washes over our unsleeping faces, we rise and prepare for the hike back to the cave. Even with stopping to eat and to collect our hidden bows, it all takes us much less time than I expected, and as we near the spot I feel my courage waning. What if there really is no coming back?

"C'mon, Catnip." Gale leaps over the narrow brook and holds out his hand to me.

I don't need his hand, but I take it, and once I'm on the other side, I don't let it go. The two of us just stand there a minute, gathering our strength and resolve. At last Gale makes a move as to go, but there's still one last thing I need to do. Before I can give myself any more time to think about it, I push myself up on my tiptoes, my hands on Gale's shoulders, and kiss him lightly on the lips.

"What was that for?" he whispers.

"It was my first kiss," I tell him. "I wanted you to have it. And keep it, no matter… no matter what happens, okay?"

His hands are warm on my face, his forehead smooth and cool against my own, the shared breath sweet between us. "Thank you."

We stand together a moment more, and then he kisses my forehead, and I feel the coolness where he once stood. It takes me no time at all to readjust my bow and walk to the cave entrance, and before I can even register fear or courage, I have disappeared after him into the darkness.


End file.
